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"If I do not paint her, she will die. Until I do, she is a mute voice"
The blot, the shadow, the form - they all nest, whisper, move, look for a way out , being finally laid on the canvas as driven by hallucinatory creatures seeking life out the womb they have just conquered.

There is a story being woven by the blots, which cannot be described but by inner speech. It demands the creation of an idiosyncratic system of signs for truthful expression, even though that aim is unattainable.